A few words on on what it meant to me
But how can a writer write when there’s nothing to write from and no one to write to?
You, my greatest muse, are dead to me.
You lit the spark, stoked the fire, and blew on it till it erupted.
Now, you are the cold breeze that puts it out.
I’ve looked for you in great books, in broken hearts, in the beauty of the beautiful.
I’ve searched for you in my travels, inward and outward.
Never did I find, such a muse as musical as you.
I postponed life and living to tend to you.
I thought we were one as you were another me.
I second-guessed myself on every word I wrote,
To accord you the deservedness you deserved.
And yet, here you are now, as distant as the twilight sky,
But just as alluring.
And so we are and so be it.